The treasure chest is full of tiny pirates.
The detective gathers everyone in the drawing room,
then announces: 'Human consciousness does not survive death.
Now, who's for pasties?'
The dowager sloughs off her flesh
and becomes a sycamore.
The denouement is fractal, shattering into progressively smaller reveals
until the reader glances back over their shoulder to see
a second, larger reader eyeing the text in which they now reside,
hazel irises like thickets of squid tentacles,
their pupils an ink mirror.
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